Chapter Text
“The word is… sauce.”
“asbfbjdb can u..... say it again plz?”
Noelle waits in a tiny gymnasium with too many seats for so few parents. Lights burn overhead. The microphone whines in protest as the spelling word is repeated, sending a bone-chilling thrum through the speakers set up at either end of the room.
“can u use it in a sentence plz!!!”
Dad sits near the middle. His kind eyes glimmer like tree lights. He already looks so proud, and her turn hasn’t even arrived yet. She does her best to take deep breaths and count like she’s been taught, to calm her nerves, to avoid the barrage of nightmare scenarios clawing for top priority in her hazy thoughts. It doesn’t help. What if she gets up there and the mic makes that terrible noise again? What if she panics and blurts out the wrong letters? What if she trips and falls and hurts herself the second she gets out of her chair, and this entire event gets canceled because of her? What if—
“Gnaw.”
(G-N-A-W.)
“Pristine.”
(P-R-I-S-T-I-N-E.)
“Cactus.”
(C-A-C-T-U-S.)
Every word pops into her head fully-formed as soon as she hears it, offering the slightest interruption, the slightest reprieve.
The other kids shuffle and slither and slouch in an awkward cycle to and from center, blurring together— What if Noelle doesn’t realize when it’s her turn? What if she doesn’t stand up in time? She needs to pay better attention, but her brain feels like it’s melting. (Is it just her or is it uncomfortably warm in here??)
“The word is… wistful.”
“Wistful. W-I-S-T-F-U-L. Wistful.”
“That is correct!”
…It’s her turn now, right? She cautiously stands up, checking, wide-eyed, to see if anyone else is trying to stand up too. Met with no resistance, she makes her way forward and faces the audience.
“The word is… galaxy,” she barely hears.
(Galaxy? W-what’s a galaxy? Where am I???) Noelle’s mind glitches out and abandons her, but reflexively she’s able to rattle off the right letters. At least, she assumes that’s what happens. She walks back to her chair amidst a smattering of applause and warm smiles from the teachers. She weakly smiles back.
Round and round the class goes, losing competitors at a dizzying pace. Catti mixes up the I and E in “receive.” Kris tries to spell a bad word on purpose and gets disqualified. Noelle keeps traveling back to the middle, again, again, again, the walk feeling longer each time. Her fur is matted with sweat and she’s starting to get dizzy, but somehow, she continues to say the right thing. Words are automatic, easy to grab from whatever part of her soul makes her want to write for fun more than homework.
Before she knows it, there are only two students left in the running. Her friend Berdly steps up to the front, looking far more comfortable than her. It’s nice, she thinks, that they’re the two who’ve made it to the final round. (All that time they spent studying has actually paid off!)
“Perplex. P-E-R-P-L-E-X. Perplex,” Berdly says. Correct.
“Including. I-N-C-L-U-D-I-N-G. Including,” Noelle says. Correct.
“G-L-I-M-P-S-E.”
“R-H-Y-T-H-M.” –There’s a peculiar, almost soothing rhythm to this repetitive, single-minded task, distracting her from everything else in the world. There is no Noelle Holiday, only arrangements of letters known by heart.
“B-U-T-T-E-R-S-C-O-T-C-H.”
“M-A-N-D-A-T-O-R-Y.”
Their classmates are fidgeting, impatient. Some of the adults are exchanging bothered looks. Noelle doesn’t notice. A hint of excitement begins to dilute her numb fear. (This is… actually pretty fun? They’re both doing really well! There’s no telling which of them will win!!)
“Intelligent. I-N-T-E-L-L-I-G-E-N-T. Intelligent,” Berdly spells.
“Correct!”
Noelle steps forward yet again, and this time her smile is real. She glances over at Berdly, then at Dad.
“The word is… December.”
The light dims from Dad’s eyes.
(D- E- )
She thought it was too hot in here. But now there is ice in her arteries and veins and she cannot stop shivering. She stands suspended in place, every muscle clenched so tightly it hurts. The world is swept beneath a glossy, watery sheen, every figure distorted, made distant and colorless. Someone calls out to her. She does not answer. The words are all bundling themselves up, clinging together in the back of her throat, desperate for a sliver of warmth. She cannot tell whether she is still breathing. Whether she is standing or collapsed.
She becomes vaguely aware of being guided back to her seat. Her vision begins to clear, but the shivering just won’t stop. Bare, jagged edges of instinctual thoughts force their way into her frozen-solid head. A half-formed prayer that no one will notice anything’s wrong, and a deeper, nauseating, fundamental terror with no words attached.
“December. D-E-C-E-M-B-E-R. December,” Berdly says without hesitation.
People start clapping, cheering, congratulating. Just loud enough to drown out the sound of Noelle hiccupping and gasping in her chair, digging her fingernails into her forearms to keep the walls from spinning.
Her prayer is answered. Nobody sees. Nobody stops her.